Morocco Spring


It has been nearly two years since the "Arab Spring" and, while we hoped for a peaceful resolution, the summer we envisioned never came. Instead, the Middle East has erupted in new turmoil, oppression and aggression so intense it feels like winter again.

It's hard to remember the joy I felt in 2011 as I watched people pour into the city squares in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya and Syria to protest against their governments and rally for freedoms we Americans consider our birthright. Like so many others, I naively hoped their protests would signal the birth of democracy in a region not known for granting freedoms to its citizens.

But, instead of celebrating free will, I've watched chaos and killings in Syria as civil war tears that nation apart. Most recently, I've feared for the world's safety as Israel and Gaza again engage in their dangerous, biblical battle.


The fate of Israel drives home the Arab Spring because we are politically, philosophically and ethically committed to its survival as a country, a democracy and witness to history. As we have seen in Syria, in addition to the awful loss of life, entire chapters of humankind are erased when treasured archaeological sites are sacrificed to war.

These warring nations make the promise of democracy in the Middle East and North Africa seem like an impossible dream. Yet, like Don Quixote, I still have hope. I was fortunate earlier this year to be one of 200 women leaders from 30 nations to visit Morocco for the International Women's Forum conference. The meeting, which focused on the aftermath of the Arab uprisings, gave us a rare opportunity to learn how Arab women leaders, some of whom are raising future leadership, view those events and their future.

Sadly, experts from around the region, including ambassadors, professors, politicians, journalists, human-rights activists, business leaders and representatives of faith predicted many of the grim events that, a few months later, made headlines in our newspapers.

What I didn't expect was how their insights would lead me to contemplate the perilous state of our own democracy. Over the past six months, I've often thought how men and women in the Arab world are willing to die for the right to speak out loud and true. In contrast, our right to free speech has spiraled into spin, where hyperbole tramples truth and facts are measured in Pinocchio noses.

We heard stories of ordinary people who performed extraordinary deeds while creating shout-outs for democracy. Yet we also saw how failure to plan effectively ensured what has transpired. Almost two years after the Arab uprisings, the ruling party in Tunisia still cannot agree on how to incorporate the role of Islam into its new constitution, and although Egyptians won the right to hold free elections, moderates could not support either candidate.

The one exception is Morocco, which is well-served by a tradition of tolerance and an enlightened monarch. During the spring of 2011, 48-year-old Mohammed VI seized the moment to institute a new constitution that values and protects human rights. Because of his decisions, divorce is legal, girls are encouraged to attend school and women are becoming an economic force in this country.

It's tempting to suggest that Morocco be the model for all Arab nations. But this is a complex region where no one-size caftan fits all. Multicultural and monarchy-led Morocco is Arabic; it's not Islamic. Turks understand this well since their country tilted toward democracy for years but now has morphed into a more traditional Muslim mind-set, with all the attendant challenges to freedoms.

Those Arab leaders who addressed us readily acknowledged that their individual paths to freedom will not be smooth or quick. But they were equally convinced that freedom is their destination.

Freedom inspired two young Libyan women to courageously publish a weekly newsletter, "From Tripoli," to alert the world to events inside their country. It compelled a young Tunisian woman to organize a group of female lawyers and activists who are successfully defending women's rights and freedoms. It inspired Mohammed Al Abdallah, a Syrian human-rights activist and television journalist, to risk his life as the media face who is challenging his government.

The promise of freedom motivates Egyptian activist Ahmed Naguib, who mobilized more than 30,000 people to congregate in Tahrir Square in 2011. "I am not as optimistic and hopeful as I was," he admitted, but then vowed, "We will never go backwards."

It's easy to forget, awash in our angry, 24/7 news cycle, that our democracy was also born from strong, clear and inclusive words that were coupled with brave actions As Ceren Kenar, a young Turkish graduate student who is leading a movement to promote democracy by bringing Turks and Arabs together, declared, "I believe in the power of words. I believe in the power of actions."

It's no surprise that the leaders of the Arab Spring are so well-educated. Thomas Jefferson observed, "An educated citizenry is a vital requisite for our survival as a free people."

Of course, the question remains: Can Ceren Kenar and other Arab leaders succeed in building new democracies? Anything is possible if obstacles can be turned into stepping-stones, but I believe it will take centuries to grow the grass-roots systems needed to sustain substantive change.

Just look at us. Our own brand of freedom is messy, and we've been at it for more than 200 years. We are a beacon for the world, yet we still don't have it entirely right. We pledge allegiance and fly our flag, but we allow words like freedom, democracy and patriot to be co-opted by political agendas. We say we care about living in a democracy, yet many of us don't bother to vote.

While we wait for the Arab Summer, we can honor the spirit of that Arab Spring by launching an American Autumn.

This movement, timed to coincide with our election cycle, would nurture an informed citizenry that values democracy by encouraging people to learn and listen more than they talk or tweet or shriek. Given time, the American Autumn campaign could develop a core of educated, thoughtful voters who would make decisions based on truth and fact.

Imagine the discussions! Smart. Civil. Passionate. True, it might take several seasons to build this conversation because our overpackaged, sound-bite driven, billionaire-sponsored political campaigns do not encourage investigation or introspection. But if we do it right, we'll make Thomas Jefferson proud.






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Partying Hard in a Caftan



Set-up marriage throne.
My dear readers, I apologize for the long absence.  I can only blame a combination of things, including a busy schedule full of research, moving, traveling, and laziness.  But here it is: the long anticipated post-Eid entry.  No animals were harmed in the writing of this post.  I promise.
Monday, I bid adieu to my host family.  It was actually a tough parting for me: I had to reign back tears several time throughout the week preceding my departure.  (And this is a pretty weird thing for me: I don’t cry easily.  Nevertheless, I’m pretty sure Soukaina started to think I was crazy after she caught me sniffling a couple of times.)
After two months of living with them, I’d started seeing them as a real second family.  I loved having a quirky big sister, a goofy (and shameless flirt of a) brother, a cute, old baba, and one of the most welcoming mama’s in the whole of Morocco.  But, come Sunday, I had to pack my things and move a whole five minutes outside of the medina kadima.  Now I’m living in a cozy flat with four friends that’s costing me about $4 per day, with a terrace that has one of the best views of the city.  Be jealous.
My stay with my Moroccan family certainly ended with a bang.  On Sunday night they held Soukaina’s engagement party.  Have I mentioned how big these things are?  This is the second one I’ve been to, the first one I attended being held in September.  This one, though, was bigger: over 50 people were packed in the small house that I had been living in for the previous two months.  My family had spent the entire week getting ready for it; prepping the ingredients for the pastilla and cleaning every square inch of the house.  Aunts, cousins, and other female family members came to help out Soukaina and hejja.  All day Saturday and Sunday, women were busy setting up the decorations.  Even my brother and his friend helped out a bit.  Saturday night, a woman came and did henna on the hands of female family members and close friends.  I got my right hand done up in flowers and swirls.  It was pretty.
When the party finally started, rented chairs lined the perimeter of the central room, and all the women, dressed to the nines in caftans made out of silk and velvet, parked themselves here.  Men went off to the side, in the room where I normally slept.  In the middle of the main room was set up an elevated white love seat that reminded me of a throne.  This was to be where Soukaina and her fiancé sat.  Meanwhile, the family reassigned Amine’s bedroom to be Soukaina’s dressing room.  She was to go through three different outfits that night.
Initially, there was a lot of awkward sitting and chatting while we waited for Soukaina to get ready and for her fiancé to arrive.  I hung out with Molly, another American student staying in Rabat with SIT.  A little before six, Soukaina came out in her first outfit, looking absolutely gorgeous.  A lot of us then went outside to welcome the fiancé and his family and friends.  They arrived in style: following them was a Moroccan band playing loud, festive Issawa music and three large, decorative tagines filled with presents for Soukaina and her family.  All of them came in, further packing the tiny house, and dancing ensued.
Dancing in Morocco has made me realize how little I utilize my hips back in the states.  Couchar and Shayma, two of Soukaina’s friends, dragged me onto the dance floor and I was able to get a little bit of some hip action, but it was nothing compared to the finesse with which they moved.  Shakira herself would say that their hips don’t lie.  I don’t think I embarrassed myself too badly, though.  The trick is to cock your hip out a bit and move it forwards and backwards—if you’re feeling fancy, twirl your hands around a bit and throw in a turn or two.
The singer in the band certainly knew how to work a crowd.  He sang traditional songs to which everyone seemed to know the words.  From time to time, he’d hold the microphone out to someone and have them finish singing a phrase.  At one point, he and the band burst into a rowdy rendition of Cheb Khaled’s “C’est La Vie,” an incredibly popular and catchy song (that I am determined to bring back to Whitman and make popular in Walla Walla).  That certainly got everyone excited.
At one point, in the night, a group of men brought out a large seat that looked like an ornate nest.  Bars were attached to it.  Soukaina was put in the nest and the men hoisted her up with the bars.  She was then carried around the room for a song or two.  It reminded me of how the bride and groom at Jewish weddings are lifted up in chairs.
At 7:30 we were served mint tea and Moroccan cookies (both of which I am going to miss quite a bit when I’m back in the states).  Women were served first, and then the men.  This was to tide us over for the actual meal, which didn’t come until after 10 (but, compared to the midnight dinners I’d been having with my family normally, this was still a pretty early dinner).  We were served pastilla (yet another Moroccan dish I can’t get enough of), a tagine of beef, apricots, and prunes, and the typical Moroccan dessert of fruit.  I was one of the last people to eat, along with my family, and by the time I had finished, many people had already filed out.  A degree of calm was finally restored to the tiny house, even though there were still plenty of extended family members hanging around, cleaning up.
I got into bed around 2 am.  I slept in the same room that I had slept in for the past two months, but tonight Soukaina was in here, as well.  We curled up and talked in the dark.
“Soukaina?”
“Yes, Leah?”
“Thank you for including me in this.”
“You had fun?”
“I had so much fun.”
“And what do you think of my husband?”
“You two were so cute!  I can tell that he loves you a lot.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.  Do you love him?”
“Yeah!  A lot!”
“Bezef (a lot)?”
“Beeeeeeezef bezef!”
Pastilla preparation 




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ZAGORA





Zagora, Morocco

ZAGORA
The red town


Zagora town is interesting mainly from its surprisinly large scale. At points you definitly do not feel that you're half the way out into Sahara. But apart from that, it is unfortunately a place quite similar to hundreds of other Moroccan towns.

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Zagora, Morocco